


Wild Roses

by CosmicZombie



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Angst, Infidelity, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, Smut, oh god so much pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24493405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicZombie/pseuds/CosmicZombie
Summary: It doesn't happen the way Nico imagined.
Relationships: Pierre-Hugues Herbert/Nicolas Mahut
Comments: 13
Kudos: 23





	Wild Roses

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, this is basically the product of me falling completely head over heels for Pierre and Nico thanks to tennis twitter (Lili and Amber I'm looking at you). If you like pining, angst, smut, and grown men who gaze adoringly at each other at every available opportunity, then this is definitely right up your street. 
> 
> Special thanks to Liam for being generally amazing, distracting me from the actual real work I should be doing by sending me pictures of Nico looking adoringly at Pierre, emoting with me about how much these two love each other, and providing me with invaluable knowledge about French culture. The books Nico and Pierre like in this are also entirely thanks to his excellent ability to characterise people with what they read. 
> 
> I've had so much fun writing this, so I really hope anyone who reads it enjoys it too. If you have the time, comments truly mean so much <3 There is a second part on the way (already almost complete), so stay tuned! 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: All so wildly untrue (especially the ATP tournament dates. I'm legit just naming European cities at random)

It doesn’t happen the way Nico imagined. The overhead light in his hotel room doesn’t work, so the only source of light is the circular glow of the bedside lamp. Its outline wavers on the ceiling like a nearly-full moon, and Nico stares up at it because he doesn’t trust himself to look at Pierre.

They’re both crashed out on top of Nico’s unmade double, close enough that every time Nico breathes in he can taste the faint cedar and pine of Pierre’s aftershave, feel their shoulders press gently together. After an evening of noise, a whole week of cheering crowds, it’s suddenly quiet, so quiet. Nico can vaguely hear the rainy lull of Hamburg drifting in through the open balcony window, but he’s more aware of the thud of his own heart, the rustle of Pierre’s suit as he shifts infinitesimally with each inhale. It sounds like he’s breathing faster than usual, but he doesn’t say anything either. The quiet presses in, laden with everything Nico has been trying to ignore for years.

Nico counts the swirling patterns in the ceiling cornice, tries to connect them like constellations. It’s gone midnight and he’s played five matches in fewer days, but tiredness feels impossible. Orion, Ursa Major, the Little Dipper. Nico doesn’t realise he’s been holding his breath until he feels Pierre’s thigh press almost imperceptibly against his – and then he lets it all out in a rush, head spinning at the sudden contact. His heart is racing and he doesn’t dare turn his head, but beside him he hears the subtle hitch in Pierre’s breath, like maybe he’s just as affected by this as Nico is. 

Nico swallows, forgetting all about non-existent stars. He can’t think about the faint sounds of the city or the soft lunar glow of the lamp, can’t think about anything but the warm, tentative pressure of Pierre’s thigh against his. His head is swimming.

For a long, timeless beat, they lie there in the relentless quiet of slowly-building anticipation. Nico’s halfway to hard already, blood fizzing with so much adrenaline it feels almost audible. He’s spent three years fighting this, trying to escape its increasing profundity – but it suddenly feels impossible, inevitable. Nico hadn’t thought he would feel afraid. He’s imagined it a thousand times behind closed curtains or eyelids, but he’d never considered how it would exist beyond those sanctuaries. He’s never even allowed himself to imagine it could – but now it’s almost tangible, the line they’re so close to shattering beyond repair. Pierre is breathing hard and fast but still quiet; Nico can feel the rapid, gentle press of their shoulders each time Pierre inhales, overwhelmingly familiar, reminiscent of sitting side-by-side at changeovers. Arousal tightens compulsively in Nico’s gut and he stares resolutely upwards, heart hammering so fast he feels dizzy.

“Nico,” Pierre’s voice breaks the silence, low and tentative, heart-achingly familiar. He’s said Nico’s name a thousand times, but it sounds different tonight. Quieter. Vulnerable. As though he’s as overwhelmed as Nico is. The thought makes Nico grit his jaw as he stares determinedly at the wavering outline of the lamp overhead, cock full and heavy, straining achingly against the seam of his trousers. Pierre’s thigh is a hot, steady line against his, inescapable.

Without even turning his head, Nico can feel the weight of Pierre’s gaze on him. He feels the heat rise in his cheeks, his heart thud faster. The thought of Pierre looking at him, seeing him like this when it’s everything he’s tried to hide for so long, is painfully intimate.

He refuses to let himself look at Pierre, but can’t help shifting his leg subtly so that their thighs brush together, biting down hard on his lower lip at the tantalising heat of Pierre’s skin beneath the creased fabric of his suit trousers. The helpless, stifled little noise Pierre makes sends blood straight to Nico’s cock, making it throb harder and his cheeks burn as he resists the urge to moan, fisting his hand in the static polyester hotel sheets. They’re barely touching, but Nico’s already overwhelmed, the unrelenting tide of tension that’s been rising between them for as long as he can remember threatening to engulf him.

When the touch grazes his jaw, light and hesitant, Nico startles. Pierre’s racquet-callused fingertips pause, and Nico can almost feel the blood thrumming through them as Pierre turns Nico’s head gently sideways so they’re looking straight at each other.

The _everything_ of it hits Nico like a punch in the gut. Pierre is still silent, but his gaze is anything but. His hazel eyes are dark and intent, conflicted, as though he’s quietly at war with himself and losing. He looks wrecked: his hair is rumpled and his lower lip red and full like he’s been biting it to keep himself from speaking. There’s a gentle pink flush that stands out high on his angular cheeks, spreading down his neck and disappearing under the open neck of his shirt. Something inscrutable flickers across his expression as Nico looks at him, takes him in like he’s never dared. Pierre holds his gaze unflinchingly even though Nico can feel him trembling, and Nico knows suddenly he couldn’t stop himself from falling now if he tried, realises the walls he’s spent years building only needed Pierre to look at him for them to come crashing down.

They look at each other for a few split seconds more that is all heat and intensity, the climax of years of half-stolen glances, and then they’re kissing.

Nico isn’t sure who initiates it, and he doesn’t care because Pierre is everywhere, silken-hot lips and tongue, urgent hands clinging to the front of Nico’s shirt like’s he’s wanted for this as long as Nico has. The low, choked moan he lets out into Nico’s mouth makes heat rush straight to Nico’s cock, and he grabs helplessly at Pierre, pulls him close because he’s ached for this for _so long_ he can’t even comprehend it. All he wants to do is forget where he ends and Pierre begins, so he kisses Pierre until his head his spinning, their noses pressed together, breath coming in stifled gasps into each other’s mouths. Nico can taste citrus and fading alcohol and a desperation that is painfully familiar but not his own. He chases it, tenderly tilting Pierre’s head to deepen the kiss until they’re both half-gasping, writhing against each other on the rumpled mess of sheets between them.

Nothing else exists. Just Pierre, Pierre, Pierre. As familiar and vital as the beat of his heart. Nico almost wants to cry with the relief of it, the feeling of Pierre urgent and breathless against him, all warm skin and long limbs. It’s so different, like this. He knows how Pierre’s mouth looks when he smiles sleepily in the morning at practice; when he yells angrily mid-match; when he laughs, quiet and sincere and just for Nico, eyes twinkling with humour. Nico could recognise it almost better than his own, but it’s irrevocably different like this: the taste of it, feeling the shape of its tentative heat and softness against his own. Fleetingly, Nico realises he’ll never be able to watch Pierre smile or shout or laugh again without remembering this, the incomprehensible elation of it.

They’re breathing too hard to kiss properly now, Pierre’s hands tangled in Nico’s hair as he catches Nico’s lower lip between his teeth. Nico hears himself let out a growl and any remaining self-restraint disappears as he grabs helplessly at Pierre and they tumble backwards so that Pierre is sprawled beneath him on the bed, their hands entwined above Pierre’s head. He gazes up at Nico, gasping, his cheeks flushed and his eyes beautiful and bright with something that makes Nico’s heart fumble a beat in his chest. It hurts, the hope that wells up in him for something he’s spent years convincing himself isn’t real. Even now, he knows it can’t be, but he can’t bring himself to stop.

Pierre is looking at him, intent and full of heat and too much for Nico to comprehend, and Nico can’t think of anything except now. He closes his eyes and kisses Pierre again, deeper, lets himself get lost in the helpless sounds Pierre makes against his mouth, the way he clings to Nico, pulls him closer.

This time, any hesitation has evaporated and it’s desperate, frantic, noses bumping and stubble grazing, grabbing at each other as though they’re trying to make up for lost time. Pierre kisses with the same quiet, fiery intensity he does everything and Nico is dizzy with how turned on he is. Pierre’s hands are under his shirt, skin on skin, tugging Nico down so they’re pressed up against every inch of each other. Nico lets out a stifled groan, biting down on Pierre’s lip when he feels how hard Pierre is against his thigh. Pierre lets out a shaky little breath against Nico’s mouth, trails his fingers down between their torsos as he grinds his hips against Nico’s thigh.

Nico pulls away, glances down. There’s a heavy pause between them as Pierre’s fingers linger suggestively, hesitantly, on Nico’s waistband, and Nico wonders if they’re really about to do this, if they’re really going to change everything between them. He can feel Pierre shaking and his heart is beating so fast it hurts with how much he _wants_.

On the bedside table, Nico’s phone goes off and they both break apart, the sound of their unsteady breathing filling the dimly lit room.

The screen is unnaturally bright in its intimate glow, and reads **_Virginie_**.

Pierre’s gaze goes blank, unreadable. He stares at the phone, lips swollen from Nico’s mouth and his hair rumpled from where Nico has clutched it, tanned planes of his bare chest rising and falling rapidly. His left hand is still on the hem of Nico’s shirt, but he loosens his grip uncertainly, as though he feels like he should let go but can’t quite bring himself to. His eyes are darker than Nico’s ever known them and he’s still hard under Nico where they’re pressed together. He’s as quiet and intense as he is the moment before they walk on court, so beautiful it makes Nico’s breath catch in his throat. Nico wants nothing more than to close his eyes again and lose himself to this uncontrollably unfolding thing between them, but his phone is still buzzing, loud and angry in the softness of their space.

“I –” Nico stares at the screen for a moment, then back at Pierre. He swallows, his mouth tasting more of Pierre than him. He never wants it to taste like anything else again.

Pierre’s expression is inscrutable, but his grip where their hands are intertwined above his head tightens, as though he knows as much as Nico that if this doesn’t happen now it might never again.

“It could be about Nat,” Nico mumbles, brokenly, watching the phone ring itself out.

“Answer,” Pierre tells him, and it’s gentle, quiet with the same engulfing sadness of something not-quite-fulfilled that tugs at Nico’s chest. Pierre doesn’t move, doesn’t let go – just watches silently as Nico clumsily disentangles their fingers and moves off him.

Nico’s whole body feels cold and unfamiliar without Pierre, but he forces himself to fumble with the phone and answer the call, heart thudding painfully in his chest. Beside him, Pierre sits up slowly curls his knees into his chest like he’s trying to preserve the memory of Nico’s touch from the silence that suddenly presses in on them. Nico is struck by how impossibly young he looks, dark hair all ruffled from where Nico’s hands have mussed it and his cheeks still pink. Nico can see the faint graze his stubble has left along Pierre’s angular jaw, proof of what just passed between them.

Pierre isn’t looking at him anymore, just staring down at his clasped hands where Nico’s had been moments before. Nico knows him better than to mistake his silence for indifference. Pierre is often at his quietest when he’s feeling the most, Nico knows. After their first Grand Slam victory they sat in elated silence together for hours. His heart aches, and he wants nothing more than to pull Pierre close again and not let go of this moment, not let it slip away like he can already feel happening. But he doesn’t, because his wife is calling and he has a ten year old son, and no matter how much Nico wants Pierre to be his priority, Nico knows that he can’t be.

He accepts the call just before it rings out. Virginie burbles into his ear about changing the date they’re having her parents round for lunch next month, and Nico closes his eyes, trying to hold onto the lingering moments of Pierre.

When he hangs up the phone, the bed behind him is empty.

Nico stares at the creases they made in the sheets until they blur into meaninglessness, the blood rushing in his ears and something a lot like shame burning his cheeks.

-

It’s barely dawn when Nico wakes, disorientated, to the grey sound of rain and rumbling traffic. The sheets beside him are cold and wrinkled like an unfamiliar face, scrunched up like he’s been clutching them in his sleep. Overhead, the ceiling is blank and starless: just faintly-cracking emulsion paint in the hard morning light. Nico stares at it uncomprehendingly for far too long before he eventually drags himself out of bed to brush his teeth and check his phone. The screen is black.

He tries to ignore the empty ache in his chest as he makes his way to the airport alone and waits in the thick, cloying drizzle of Paris for Virginie to pick him up and take him back to how everything was before. Their car smells of peppermint air-freshener and Nat’s toys are scattered on the backseat and it should feel like home, but when he gets in it somehow feels as unfamiliar as the departures lounge back in Hamburg.

Nico can’t bear to look at Virginie, so he just leans his head wearily against the window, watches the rain-slicked city slide past in a blur. He’s exhausted and there’s a lump in his throat as he watches the familiar streets unfold, wondering how he can feel such a stranger to them. The taxi to the airport was fine, the flight was fine. It’s all been fine for years, he’s made so sure of that. Only now it’s suddenly not, and he doesn’t know what to do. Forever of being careful, of keeping it all compartmentalised, and it’s suddenly spilling out into everything. The things he’s never allowed himself to dwell on threaten to overwhelm.

He grits his jaw, closes his eyes against the burn of tears and sleeplessness – but all he can see is Pierre, tousle-haired and sleepy and eating slices of banana in the early morning sun; Pierre reading quietly beside him on a plane, a little furrow between his brows, tongue poking out of his mouth slightly as he concentrates; Pierre running at him, beaming so wide it eclipses the sun as the crowd erupts around them; Pierre gazing up silently at him in the mess of sheets, impassioned gaze and beautiful lean limbs. It makes Nico ache, like a part of him is missing.

He’s loved people before, of course: his parents, his old hamster Eugene, his first girlfriend, lovely Virginie, his beautiful son perhaps most of all. For nearly thirty two years, Nico thought he understood what it meant, how it felt.

And then – Pierre. Love suddenly felt like such a small, inadequate word.

“Nico,” Virginie’s voice startles Nico from his half-conscious stupor and he jerks upright, clearing his throat awkwardly as he turns to look at her. She’s wearing the little art-deco glass earrings he bought her for their anniversary last year and looking at him like she knows he’s not really there. “Eat. You look exhausted.” She opens the glove compartment and points to some granola bars, doesn’t say anything else. She’s known him long enough to know when to push it and when not to. 

“It was a long week,” Nico says, by way of apology. It’s not untrue, but it feels like a lie. He picks up one of the raspberry and goji berry ones and tries not to think about the fact they’re Pierre’s favourites. He always steals them out of Nico’s kit bag when they’re practicing and replaces them with the pumpkin seed bars neither of them like. Once, Nico had caught him and they’d played an entire service game with the pumpkin seed ones, hitting them across the net until they were doubled-up with laughter. Abruptly, Nico wonders if Pierre will ever smile at him like that again.

He chews mechanically and swallows, but the lump in his throat still aches.

“Nat can’t wait to see you, he wanted to come with me to pick you up but he had homework to finish and Celeste was there to watch him,” Virginie tells him, pulling off the motorway and onto the smaller, winding road that leads to their house. “We watched on TV, and he was so proud.”

Nico manages a feeble smile at that, the thought of Nat’s happiness. They lapse back into silence. Nico works his way through the granola bar and feels marginally more human by the time they pull up in the driveway and Nat comes flying out of the house, toothy grin wide and like the sun.

For a moment, it’s enough for Nico to manage to forget.

-

They have a week off scheduled before they start training for Marseilles.

October in Boulogne is rainy, full of burnt colours and wood-smoke and quiet. Usually, Nico finds the stillness a relief after weeks of touring, but this time it’s jarring. He misses Hamburg’s gentle lull of noise and lights, the whirr of the air-conditioning in his room and Pierre breathing unsteadily beside him on that last night. He tries his best to ignore it, plays Lego with Nat after school and makes dinner for Virginie and tries to read his book (a copy of Murakami’s _Norwegian Wood_ that Pierre lent him months ago), but it all feels wrong. The days pass like eons, and by the end of the week even Nat’s happy little smile isn’t enough to block Pierre from Nico’s mind.

He sleeps badly at night, searching for the curve of a non-existent lamp on the starless ceiling, replaying the small, stifled sounds Pierre made against his mouth, the way he clung to Nico like he knew letting go was inevitable. The numb resignation in his eyes when he did haunts Nico until his eyes are gritty with sleeplessness and dawn is edging quietly through the blinds. He fidgets with his phone while Virginie breathes softly beside him, typing and deleting countless texts he never sends until he wonders if it even happened. When he finally manages to drift into sleep, he wakes with the quiet ringing in his ears.

Pierre’s silence is almost a relief. It’s confirmation that Nico isn’t imagining it, that it did, somehow, really happen. It’s also unbearable. Before, they talked all the time – blearily, between sips of lemon tea in airport lounges first thing in the morning; breathless and elated at the climax of a match; quietly, close together after losses; over text when for once they’re not in the same city as each other. Nico sends pictures of Nat grinning up at the camera and any food he cooks, Pierre sends pictures of beautiful Parisian skylines and his cat and quotes from whatever book he’s reading. It’s been years, and Nico can’t even remember what his life felt like before Pierre was in it, taking up all the space, the same way he can’t remember what life felt like before he could hold a tennis racquet.

Eventually, enough is enough and one morning after brunch when Virginie has taken Nat to the supermarket, Nico chucks aside the magazine he’s been flicking through without really seeing and calls Pierre before he can talk himself out of it. His heart is racing and his head is swimming with sleeplessness, but he clenches his fists and waits it out.

Pierre picks up on the eighth ring, just when Nico thinks it’s about to go to voicemail. There’s the crackle of background noise, but Pierre doesn’t say anything.

“Hi,” Nico hesitates, picks at the uneaten crust of his sandwich. His heart is pounding even harder and the cotton of his t-shirt is suddenly sticking to his back. “It’s me,” he adds, somewhat unnecessarily, when there’s an indeterminate pause.

“I know,” Pierre’s voice sounds muffled, and there’s traffic in the background.

“Right,” Nico squashes a piece of crust into a little circle of dough, ignores the uncomfortable thump of his heart, “Are you out?”

“Yeah, I’ve been to the market with Julia,” Pierre says, and he doesn’t sound angry or sad or any of the things Nico thought he might. He just sounds flat, resigned. It’s almost worse than the silence.

“Oh,” Nico swallows. He doesn’t know what to say.

“What’s up?” Pierre asks, and Nico wants to open his mouth and let all of it out, everything he’s been struggling to push down over the last week, because in some strange way he feels like Pierre is the only one who’ll understand.

He doesn’t, though. Instead, he just says, “I was just wondering if you’re still on for practice next week?” and feels like a failure. 

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Pierre’s tone is even, familiar and unfamiliar all at once. It’s familiar because it’s him, the same quiet, gentle tone Nico is almost more used to than his own – but unfamiliar because isn’t speaking to Nico like Nico, he’s speaking to him like he’s a stranger. Nico’s used to seeing Pierre being reserved, self-contained around other people, but never with him.

In the handful of years they’ve known each other, Nico isn’t sure they’ve ever managed a whole conversation without Pierre teasing him or both of them bickering about something pointless. This is the most civil they’ve ever been to each other, and Nico can’t stand it. He wants Pierre to gently mock him for being too old or uncool or for still reading John Grisham, to argue with him about what route they’re going to take to Marseilles next week. He wants Pierre to shout and cry at him, tell him what an awful person he is. He wants Pierre to shrug it off, tell Nico it all meant nothing. But Pierre doesn’t do any of those things. He just sounds cool and polite, the way he does in press.

“Okay,” Nico stares down at the little blob of dough he’s made with the sandwich crust. He feels strangely detached from himself. “I’ll see you on Monday then I guess.”

“Yeah.” There’s a pause, then – “Nico?”

“Yes?” Nico swallows, heart thumping. Hearing Pierre say his name makes it feel, for a moment, as though nothing’s changed at all. With a jolt of his heart, he realises that the last time Pierre said it was overwhelmed and breathless, gazing up at Nico with something dangerously close to reverence.

Maybe Pierre remembers too, because in the end he just says, quietly, “I have to go. Sorry – I’ll see you on Monday, okay?”

Nico doesn’t take the phone away from his ear until there’s the sound of keys in the lock and Virginie and Nat are clattering in with the shopping.

-

It pours on Sunday night, enough to wash away the last leaves clinging to the trees. Nico lies awake for hours after Virginie has turned off the light, listening to them fall. If he closes his eyes, the monotonous dark of their bedroom melts away along with the uneasy thud of his heart, and he can almost convince himself it’s the soft hush of rain outside a hotel window in Hamburg. He doesn’t remember falling asleep and wakes early with a start, disorientated, expecting to be alone, but Virginie is still breathing quietly beside him.

-

It’s so early it’s still dark when Nico gets to the practice courts, the rain a grim mizzle in the greasy orange floodlights. He draws in great breaths of the cold, cloying damp, grateful to breathe anything that isn’t the stale air of a sleepless bedroom that no longer feels like his own. Inside, it’s jarring how familiar the corridors still feel even though everything’s changed; Nico can almost convince himself it’s just another morning before they flew out to Hamburg.

He agonises outside the locker-room for what feels like ages, trying to somehow prepare himself in a few minutes for what he hasn’t been able to comprehend in three years. His pulse is thrumming so hard his ears are ringing, skin prickling with adrenaline. He’s been waiting all week for this moment, but now that it’s here he can’t quite come to terms with it. He tries to picture Pierre’s face, but all he can see is the conflicted expression in Pierre’s eyes from the last time they met his, uncertain and complicated in the dim lighting of Nico’s hotel room.

There’s the sound of voices somewhere else in the building, startling Nico into pushing open the door. It’s silent, and for a moment, he thinks the locker-room is empty. He feels his heart sink – but then he sees Pierre. He’s sitting on the bench in the corner, headphones on, and Nico feels his heart fumble a beat at the sight of him.

Pierre’s hair is damp from the rain outside, curling slightly where it falls over his forehead, and he’s wearing a grey Lacoste hoodie that’s the twin of an ancient one Nico has at home. Usually, Pierre’s posture is agile, attentive, fluid and easy even first thing in the morning – but today he’s hunched over himself, still, just like the last time Nico looked at him. It’s surreal, seeing him there like he has been a thousand mornings before. It doesn’t feel real, could be any one of those mornings, until Pierre looks up.

The feel of their gazes meeting is like a punch to the gut.

Silence presses in on them, suffocating. Nico swallows, heart pounding so hard it hurts. In that split second, he knows it’ll never feel like one of those mornings again. Pierre’s expression is unreadable, conflicted – but under it all Nico thinks he catches a flicker of the same relief that’s flooding through him, like maybe the first time in days Pierre can breathe too.

“Morning,” Nico tries, like it’s any other day, even as his cheeks burn and his chest aches with how this somehow feels worse than silence ever could.

“Morning,” Pierre echoes, and it doesn’t sound any better in his mouth. His lips curve into the pale imitation of a smile. It’s not the warm, quietly twinkling grin Nico loves, it’s the one Pierre saves for press interviews after losses.

They both look at each other, silent. It beats in on them, like their quiet has a heartbeat of its own. Nico is hit with the memory of the silence between them in Hamburg, the way that Pierre gazed at him, unguarded and beautiful in the soft glow of the hotel room in that moment before they changed everything. He tries to wish himself back to before that moment, but even as his heart aches with how far away Pierre feels now, he can’t bring himself to want it undone.

They hit for an hour and a half, and Nico misses most of his shots. Pierre leaves as soon as they stop, the dark circles under his eyes heavier than the ones Nico scrutinised in his own face that morning.

-

The next match they play is a disaster. They’re uncoordinated and wavering between overly-hesitant and too reckless, Pierre keeps double-faulting, and to top it off they’re rained off a break of serve down in the third set. As soon as the umpire makes the announcement, Pierre storms off court, face like thunder. Instinctively, Nico chucks his towel aside and follows him into the locker-room.

Pierre is pacing, fists clenched so that the tendons on his toned arms stand out in sharp relief. He’s swearing, expression livid as he wrenches off his headband and lets out a particularly explosive cry.

“Pierre, don’t –”

“We _had_ them, this should have been done by now,” Pierre cuts across him bluntly, speaking hard and fast. He’s not looking at Nico; he’s staring down at his grass-encrusted trainers, and although his chest is heaving with anger Nico’s suddenly struck by how exhausted he looks, tiredness beyond muscle fatigue. The same deep tiredness Nico feels in his bones.

“Pierre –”

“Don’t patronise me by telling me it’s not my fault, Nico, because we both know this match should have been over an hour ago, okay? If I’d just been able to get my goddamn head in the game then we wouldn’t be stuck here waiting for the rain to stop.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath, face contorted. There’s a smudge of mud on his cheekbone, mixing with the sweat and rain, and Nico has to resist the sudden urge to step across the space between them and wipe it away.

“What’s your fault is my fault too, we’re a team,” he says instead, gently, in the same voice he uses whenever he’s trying to get Nat to back down from a tantrum. Pierre’s volatility, the intensity with which he feels things is both his greatest strength and weakness. Nico envies him it sometimes, his inability to do things by halves. He wonders if it would make all of this easier, or harder. 

“Are we?” Pierre demands, incredulously, and his dark eyes are burning. It feels like the first time he’s really looked at Nico since that night in Hamburg, and Nico forgets the fact they’re rained off and losing to qualifiers, the fact his muscles are cramping and he’s starving hungry, and just looks back at Pierre. It hurts, like salt in a wound, but it’s almost a relief.

“Of course we are,” Nico says, quietly.

“How can you say that so easily?” Pierre cries, wildly, and Nico can see the threatening glitter of tears in his tumultuous gaze. He stops, takes a great breath in, “How can you say that, Nico?” he whispers, almost inaudibly. He looks at Nico, all of the silence of the past few weeks obliterated, and Nico knows what he means, knows it better than if either of them tried to explain it with words.

He holds Pierre’s glimmering gaze for several beats, and then he takes two strides across the space between them and kisses him. Pierre makes a muffled sound against his lips that sounds a lot like relief, draws a great shuddery breath in and his hands come up to grab the front of Nico’s shirt, pulling him close. Nico can taste Lucozade and frustration and _Pierre_ , and it feels like coming home. He lets Pierre push him back against the lockers with a loud metallic _clunk_ , his hands hot against Nico’s chest. There’s nothing soft or tentative about the kiss: it’s all urgent mouths and breathlessness, weeks of unspoken words. Nico’s dimly aware that someone could walk in at any moment, but he can’t bring himself to care, to let go of Pierre again. So he doesn’t, and they kiss until they’re both gasping against each other’s mouths and Nico is so hard he feels dizzy.

Pierre presses in closer and Nico groans at the hot line of Pierre’s cock against his, tightening his grasp around Pierre’s thigh as they rock together messily. Too overwhelmed to kiss, Nico lets his head fall back against the locker, breathing hard. Pierre mouths at his neck, bites possessively at the join between Nico’s shoulder and neck, making Nico clutch him closer still and pull Pierre in to kiss him again even though he still can’t breathe properly. It starts out as angry and full of heat as the first, but slowly melts into something softer, so tenderly intimate that it makes Nico’s chest ache with the sheer depth of emotion that feels impossible to contain or comprehend.

Trembling, he brings his hands up to cradle Pierre’s face in his hands, kisses him slowly, helpless in the face of the tide of emotion that wells in his chest. He feels the faint graze of stubble, the familiar, angular line of Pierre’s jaw, and Pierre’s hand slides up to cover Nico’s there, linking their fingers together in a gesture so tender Nico feels his heart beat so hard it hurts. Tears prick inexplicably behind his eyes as Pierre twines their fingers together fiercely, kisses him tenderly and deeply until neither of them can breathe properly. Slowly, Pierre pulls away, and Nico catches a glimpse of the impassioned anguish on his face as he rests his forehead against Nico’s breathing hard. Nico just holds onto him, holds them both together as the quiet beats in around them.

After a few moments, Pierre pulls away again, hair tousled from where Nico has clutched at it, hazel eyes dark and fraught with emotion. He’s not speaking, but he’s looking at Nico without any of the guardedness of the last few weeks. They stare at each other for what could be seconds or minutes in wild surmise, the silence and space stretching on between them, Nico’s heart thudding painfully and his lips still tingling. Pierre’s eyes are wide and heart-achingly familiar as he looks at Nico. His forehead is creased and his expression overwhelmed – but before either of them can say anything, the locker-room door opens and someone shouts, telling them the rain has stopped.

When they eventually straggle off court again it’s past five and the sun is curdling the clotted rainclouds, ground still damp underfoot. The moment Nico emerges, Nat and Virginie are there, wrapping him up in hugs and praise and laughter. Caught up in the comforting normality of it, Nico laughs with them, forgetting for a moment the deep ache in his heart and the burn of exhausted muscles, the impossibility of his feelings and how he knows, somewhere, that all of this is on borrowed time now.

He doesn’t think about any of that. Instead, he just scoops Nat up and whirls him round, soaks up the fleeting illusion that everything was still as it was, even though he knows that isn't really what he wants. Nat squeals and giggles, kicking his little feet until Nico sets him down again, laughing breathlessly as he leans over to kiss Virginie. Her hands come up to cup his face, soft and delicate and uncallused, and when they separate she beams up at him, all love and pride. Nico smiles back the way he has a hundred times before, slings an arm around her and reaches down to ruffle Nat’s hair as he steers them towards the exit.

That’s when he catches sight of Pierre. He’s standing alone by the fence, laden down with all of their kit bags, face exhausted and full of something Nico can hardly bear to look at.

The smudge of mud is still on his cheekbone, Nico notices. He never got the chance to wipe it away.

-

They don’t kiss again after that. Months go by, and it’s as if none of it ever happened. At first, Pierre doesn’t look at him properly, but they practice very morning, play a handful of matches at 250 tournaments, and, slowly, it almost starts to feel the way it always did. Almost. Slowly, the bruise from Pierre's mouth fades from mottled purple to yellow to ugly brown, like the rotting petals of a wild rose.

Nico checks it every morning in the mirror with a sinking feeling in his chest, digs his fingers into the mark to try and slow its inevitable fade.


End file.
